The official report blamed faulty wiring in an old section of the mansion. Lucas had accepted it because grief made every question feel cruel. Victor had stood beside his hospital bed and promised that he would never let another harm come to the Moretti family.
Now Lucas stared at the tablet and wondered whether the false warehouse alarm had been the first lie.
A knock interrupted him.
Grace entered with Lily holding her hand. The little girl had changed into a clean sweatshirt borrowed from the staff room, but her pink pajama pants were still visible beneath it. She looked smaller in the bright clinic than she had in the marble hallway.
“I told them I wanted to thank her,” Lucas said.
Grace shook her head. “You don’t owe us anything, sir. Lily shouldn’t have been here. I understand if you want me to resign.”
“I don’t.”
Grace blinked.
“You made a difficult decision because you had no childcare. You should have told your supervisor, but that doesn’t make you a bad mother. We’ll address the rule violation separately. Your employment is not being terminated.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief, though she still looked wary. “Thank you.”
Lucas turned to Lily. “How are your lungs?”
“Okay.” She patted the small pouch at her waist. “Mommy says I have to keep my medicine close. I forgot it was in my hand until I heard you.”
“You gave me medicine you might have needed yourself.”
Lily thought about that. “You needed it first.”
Lucas did not know how to answer.
Grace explained that Lily had been diagnosed with asthma at four. Their insurance had changed twice in a year, and although the clinic had helped them arrange prescriptions, the family still had to plan carefully around refills and appointments. Grace never complained about it directly, but Lucas heard the effort behind every calm sentence.
“Has she been seen by Dr. Shaw?” he asked.
“No, sir. We use a clinic in Queens.”
“Would you be willing to let our medical office coordinate with your daughter’s doctor? Only if you consent. I don’t want anyone changing her treatment without your approval. I want to make sure she has the supplies her doctor recommends.”
Grace looked at him, searching for a hidden price. “Why?”
“Because she helped me, and because a child shouldn’t have to worry whether her medicine will be available.”
Lily tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Can I see the piano room?”
Grace looked startled. “Lily, that’s not—”
“Not tonight,” Lucas said gently. “But perhaps another day.”
The girl nodded, accepting the answer without complaint. Before leaving, she looked at Lucas one last time.
“Are you still sick?”
“A little.”
“Then don’t be stubborn about your medicine. Mommy says grown-ups do that.”
For the first time that night, Lucas laughed. The sound was rough and unfamiliar, as if it had been waiting behind a locked door.
When Grace and Lily left, he looked at Elias. “Find out whether Victor ordered the pharmacy delivery.”
Elias nodded.
“And one more thing. Pull the records from the night of the fire. Every call, every gate entry, every vehicle. I want the original files, not the summaries I was given.”
“Lucas,” Elias said carefully, “if you’re right about that night—”
“I may not be right.”
He looked toward the closed clinic door.
“But I’m not going to let grief do the work of evidence anymore.”
Outside, Victor Romano stood at the end of the corridor, speaking softly into his phone.
“The girl survived,” he whispered. “No. The boss survived.”
A pause.
Then Victor’s face hardened.
After Grace and Lily left the clinic, Lucas asked the nurse to bring him a notebook. He wanted to write down what he remembered before the details blurred. The empty inhaler, Victor’s expression, the delay before the doctor arrived—each detail seemed small enough to dismiss on its own. Together, they made a shape he could no longer ignore.
He also wrote down something he had not admitted aloud: he was frightened. Not of dying, exactly. He had spent too many years in rooms where death was treated as a possibility that came with the job. He was frightened of discovering that his grief had been managed by the same man who had helped him survive it. If Victor had lied about the fire, then every kind word at the hospital and every promise at the funeral had been part of a performance.
Lucas closed the notebook when his hand began to shake. He would not let fear turn suspicion into a verdict. He would ask questions, preserve records, and accept whatever the evidence showed. That was the only way to honor Isabella, who had always insisted that truth mattered even when it was painful.
